Ten Day Poem
by Helen Racine
Summary: Moving from one world to the next had never been easy - not even for the best-travelled men. Certainly not for a seven-year-old ex-puppet. A take on Pinocchio's first few days in Boston. OneShot. Spoilers for 1x20.


**Start Date: **Sunday, April 29th, 2012

**End Date:** Tuesday, May 1st, 2012

**Summary: **Moving from one world to the next had never been easy - not even for the best-travelled men. Certainly not for a seven-year-old ex-puppet. A take on Pinocchio's first few days in Boston.

**Spoilers:** For 1x20

**Characters: **Pinocchio/August/The Stranger, Emma

**Disclaimer:** Not mine!

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**Ten Day Poem**

Pinocchio had never been a baby –

He had almost no memories of the time before. Trees, even enchanted trees, had little use for thoughts and feelings – it was not their place to cogitate. There was growing and stretching, and the feeling of water in his roots and sunlight on his leaves. He'd been carved as a boy, half-grown and wide-eyed, ready to experience the world.

Sometimes, it felt that all Emma did was cry.

"It's OK, Emma – " it was his mantra; his sacred duty. Protect the baby. He was a real boy now, and real boys had responsibilities. "It's OK – "

She cried at the tree, when she first passed into this world. She cried on the walk. She cried at the restaurant, only stopping when the cook came forward with a bottle of warm milk. She cried when the policemen arrived. She cried on the way to the orphanage. She cried when she was in her crib.

"It's alright, dear – " the social worker, Mrs. Taylor, had tried to calm him. "She's a very, very little baby. She doesn't know how to talk to us yet – she cries because she needs something."

"But she's already had food, and – " he scrunched up his face " – she's _pooped_."

Mrs. Taylor had bundled him in a rough hug. "You're right – but, sometimes babies don't need just _things_. They need love."

He liked Mrs. Taylor: she was an older, almost-fat lady, with brown eyes and faint cedar smell. If this had been home, he could have imagined her as his mother. But this wasn't –

"_Shhhh – Emma _– "

He knew why she was crying: because, even as a baby, she could _feel_ the difference between this world and the one she was _supposed_ to be in. Because she missed her mother and her father. Because she'd never see the Western Meadows or the Sapphire Oceans, or taste the sweet-spicy-sweet of gee berries. Because this world was dull and grey and itchy and smelled. Because this was _not home_.

"I bet I can make you laugh - "

He hadn't been a real boy for very long – several months. He was still becoming accustomed to living: eating, breathing. The _thump-thump_ of his heart. Pain – even pain was exhilarating. The way his lungs screamed for air when he ran too far or too fast. The dull ache of a bruise; sharp sting of a stubbed toe. Hitting his thumb with a hammer. He'd spent a hour, staring in wonder, as red blood pooled out, coagulated, and morphed into a scab.

Truthfully, he had half-expected to turn back into wood when he crossed into this world – this world didn't have magic. He checked his fingers and toes every day (sometimes twice a day) to make sure the Blue Fairy's magic hadn't started to wear off. He wanted to grow. He wanted to become a man – and have grand adventures with dragons and princesses and trolls. He wanted a family. And then he wanted to be old and wrinkled, and, like his father, spend his last days working in a wood shop fixing toys and building clocks.

– the thought of turning back into a puppet.

– and, not just a puppet – a dead puppet. A chunk of wood that sat on the shelf, collecting dust. At least as a tree he'd been alive.

There were no trolls in this world. No dragons – other than the stuffed one that sat on the bookshelf (and, honestly, it didn't look like a particularly frightening species.) But, there was a princess –

"Princess Emma – " he'd never really put it together, but it made sense. If Emma was a princess, and he was her protector – he was already a knight; sort of. But, she didn't seem like the type of princess that would enjoy trolls and dragons. "Maybe when you're older?"

He'd found the story, _The Adventures of Pinocchio_, in the Common Room's bookshelf on his second morning. It was a tattered, tired old copy; he'd grabbed it with shaking hands, ran back to Emma's crib, and started to read:

_Centuries ago there lived –_

"_A king!" my little readers will say immediately._

_No, children, you are mistaken. There was, once upon a time, a piece of wood. This wood was not valuable – _

"Well, that's not right," he sniffed. "I was the grandest tree in the _entire_ North Woods."

_This wood was not valuable: far from it. It was only a common log, like those that are burnt in winter in the  
stoves and fireplaces to make a cheerful blaze and warm the rooms._

_I cannot say how it came about, but the fact is, that one fine day this piece of wood was lying in the shop of an old carpenter  
by the name of Master Antonio, but everyone called him Master Cherry, for the tip of his nose was  
so round and red and shiny that it looked like a ripe Cherry –_

The book was thick; he spent all afternoon and evening reading and sounding-out the words, only stopping when Mrs. Taylor came by to tend to Emma. His voice was dry and tired when he finished, shutting the cover with a smart _snap!_ Emma had fallen asleep hours ago, but he talked to her anyways.

"I wonder if your mother's story is in a book?" He had his suspicions – she was Snow White, after all. "I wonder how this place even knows about us. I wonder if any of _our _stories actually happened in this world."

Her crib was close enough that he could reach across from his bed and slide his fingers through the bars. Her tiny hand latched on to his finger. The metal was cold and starting to rust. Besides a few old toys in the nursery, everything in this world was steel, glass, or that strange, shiny plastic. If they hadn't come through in the forest, he would have doubted that trees even _existed_.

"Cities at home aren't this big," he noted. The buildings – so tall! Higher than the Wailing Cliffs! The sky lit up at night; eerie orange. And everything was so noisy. "I don't even come from the city – my home's in Baillie; it's far away from your castle, in the mountains. My father makes things from wood – clocks, and toys, and furniture, and doors and windows. He's teaching me how to, too – well, when I'm not in school. If you ever visit, our house is right beside the bakery. I could teach you to – "

"August – "

It was late; the lights had been turned off an hour ago. He jumped at his new name; stolen from an out-of-date calendar and the special tables at the restaurant. August Booth – and Emma Swan. Swan, because she would probably grow up to be as pretty as one.

"August, shut up – " he couldn't see who the voice was coming from. A girl? "It's late."

_Honest, selfless, kind _–

"I'm sorry – " he sighed; there were important things to share, and Emma had to be ready to fight the Queen. "I'm sorry – good-night."

Emma was still asleep.

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**Author's Notes: **_The Stranger_, without a doubt, was my favourite _Once Upon a Time_ episode to date -without exaggeration, I've already watched it nine times - so many feelings! August's story is amazing; I would just love to know where he spent the last twenty-eight years; how he adapted to life in our world; how he coped with being a fictional character. - agh! Dissertation, can't you just write yourself? - anyways, hope that you enjoyed this little drabble!


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